Delivered

This will be the last chance for me, Ceece. I turn fifty whole years old the night before Colossus. This ain’t no country for old men. Three decades of looking out from the corner and telling myself: nobody wins ‘em all, so go out there and make sure that motherfucker’s ready to bleed for his like you’re ready to bleed for yours. I used to think your pseudo-daddy Phil Atken had it right (maybe not by choice): write your legend in the ring until the body breaks. Ride until the wheels fall off. I came back to PRIME determined never to walk away: stretcher me off or let me die in the ring with my boots on, where I belong. I’m not gonna tell you that’s wrong. Maybe Phil would. But I’ve changed my tune. There’s more to life than what we do out there.  I’m not supposed to say that before the biggest match of my life, the grand spectacle of the slobberknocker to end all slobberknockers, but there’s more. So this is it for me. You’ll remain the center of the PRIME solar system, as many Tarps ahead of you as there are behind. Someday soon, I’ll take off from the top rope for the last time, and be grounded for good. I’ll touch earth and stay down there. I wish I could stay. And listen, pal, you’ve got a great personality (for a shitheel) and you’ll make somebody a wonderful forever-enemy. You’ve beaten stronger and nastier and sprightlier men than me to earn your top spot. Maybe one of them is your violence soulmate. Me? I’ve just got this one last thing to do. Someday soon, you’ll raise it above your head at Colossus, rival vanquished and staring up at your glory. Someday.  But not today.  /~/~/~/~/ “Oh don’t be so dramatic, Chan.” “I’m serious.” “No way I need a doctor’s note to watch your Colossus match,” Aubrey says, throwing a pillow in his general direction. They’re on the couch at Aubrey’s. She’s horizontal. Horizontality is one of two permissible activities at this extremely-full-term point in her pregnancy. The other: go into labor. “Too high stress. Can’t take the risk. Do you know how traumatic birth is to the body?” “Do you?” “Can’t take the risk!” “What makes you think I’ll even get stressed watching you? Maybe I’m very zen about the whole thing. Heck, maybe I’m secretly rooting for Farthington as a reverse jinx.” “Doc. Tors. Note,” Chandler replies, emphasizing with three claps. “You do realize the insane narcissism involved in thinking that, after birthing a whole person, I’m going to talk to the doctors about written permission to watch my cousin’s wrestling match?” “You don’t need to do all that.” He pauses. “Just let the midwife know it’s her responsibility as part of the birthing plan.” Another pillow flies at him. “This time tomorrow, you’ll be second fiddle, pal. No more dropping everything for your ass.” “So I should take advantage and be really needy tonight?” “How would I know the difference?” Chandler doesn’t throw a pillow because you’re not allowed to do that to your 105% pregnant cousin but with his eyes, he throws so many. “Maybe I’m very zen about the whole thing. You think I’m over here patiently waiting to dish about the English ponce?” Chandler asks. They both know who he means. “You’ve unleashed dozens of unprovoked, unwanted promos about your opponents to me before, I thought you’d be gnashing your teeth to talk your shit.” “What’s there to say? I don’t like him, and I get the feeling it’s mutual, but there’s no vendetta like with Ivan or Shakur. The two most impressive things that have happened in wrestling this year are my Almasy run and his Uni reign, in some order. It’s only right, only fair, that the gods of PRIME point us at one another and say: fight.” “It would be easier if you hated his guts.” It’s unclear whether it’s a question or statement. “Maybe?” Chandler puzzles at it, scratching his chin. “Do you hate your neighbor who has the better lot and the bigger pool? Or do you just want their house?” “Professional envy.” “I need what he has, and it almost, almost has nothing to do with him though, yes, I’d like to knock a couple teeth loose. He’s a mannequin on which my title rests. He needs a Colossus defense against a Hall of Famer to polish off the greatest reign of all-time, and I need that belt to write my name in lights forever.” “And then what, mission accomplished? Retire and be a stay at home uncle?” “I don’t know that any more than you know what happens when you and Charcoal come home from the hospital.” “Charcoal?” “It’s really hard to figure out stuff that weighs eight pounds. Best I could do.” “The rapier wit of the future heavyweight champion of the world, ladies and gentlemen.” Her eyes flash a memory. “Hey did you hear from Jaz?” “Yeah,” he says, sucking his teeth. “She started the twenty four hours of surgery prep fasting.” “But you didn’t tell her what you found about Anfield?” Molten shame in his ribs, Chandler casts his gaze down. His investigator found all the expected things about Jasmine’s svengali Dr. Trevor Anfield: he does have an MD, but through a Caribbean medical school that exists to serve those who got rejected everywhere else. Anfield has a history of legal trouble that’s hard to parse, but once you start to see him as the common denominator in eight cases about medical fraud and misleading clients, the benefit of the doubt evaporates. It’s as bad as Chandler, in his reflexive desire to protect Jasmine, imagined. And none of it matters. “Chan?” “I sent her some of it. I said I supported her decision no matter what.” “And?” “Thumbs up emoji, and then radio silence.” “Oof,” Aubrey says. “Enjoy this in twenty years, by the way. And enjoy your last night of freedom from…” Chandler gestures vaguely in the air, trying to summon all the vagaries of his version of parenting. “Look at this lumpy porpoise body,” she says, pointing to her belly, “and tell me what part of freedom this represents.” “Won’t you miss it? Being responsible for nobody else? Having your life be exclusively your own?” “A little. But I have to see what’s on the other side.” Chandler nods and gets up. “It’s late.” He smiles at his cousin, and offers his hand to help her up. They haven’t talked about Tim, the perfect-on-paper sperm donor who’s gone feral and lurked and threatened from the shadows for months. A restraining order keeps her safe in the eyes of the law, but they haven’t talked about Tim. Tonight, they won’t. He can’t ruin this. At the door, Chandler calls to her. “See you tomorrow. For what’s on the other side.” /~/~/~/~/ What’s on the other side of Colossus for you, Ceece? There’s a life for me out there, over the horizon. Just gotta crest one more hill. Hold that gold lady over my head one more time and show baby Charcoal who her uncle was, when he was the cat’s meow. Let’s be honest: Uncle Chan was a real selfish prick— nice that we have that in common xoxo—all the long days of his life. But what’s a more beautiful success story than the world’s most selfish prick growing and evolving into a garden variety selfish prick with some redeemable features? You’ll get there with some elbow grease, champ. For them, all my people, I need this to be the end. I see what a guy like Coral did, riding off all Elwayish into the sunset, and I think: yes, that. You’ll always have a reign to be proud of, babe. But for them, and for me, and for my storybook ending, I’m gonna need the money in the bag, hands in the air, and no sudden movements while I relieve you of that Uni you got weighing you down. Here, I’ll give you a private moment to say your tearful goodbyes. /~/~/~/~/ He squeezes her hand. “Love you.” She squeezes back. “Love you too.” Then a legion of PPE’d phantoms take Aubrey into the Caesarean surgery suite, and Chandler has to wait. His stomach does moonsaults, and time oozes by, gelatinously slow. In the waiting room are faceless others, mostly men, mostly desperate to be distracted just like Chandler. He picks up his iPhone and starts the same text to Nate Colton he’s started and discarded three times already. What he wants to say: I know the feeling of losing the big one, been there. Nobody wins ‘em all. No need to respond, but rip that fucker’s moustache off. It’s been an age since Chandler had a friend in the locker room, and by design. He’s too old for that now. He’s a Hall of Fame bust, not somebody who makes nice. Besides, for every Tyler Rayne who lifts you up and becomes a blood brother, there’s a Danny Ferguson shaking your hand with a knife up his sleeve. He realizes these are the rearview mirror recollections of someone who can see the finish line. The phone buzzes and summons him from reverie. “Hey, Kai.” “Hello, Chandler.” In the two months since Chandler “revealed” that he was Kai’s biological father, much has warmed between them. Kai has become curious about PRIME’s history, digging deep into archives and YouTube footage of the Revolution Era. Chandler has gamely tried Kai’s beloved sour beers, finding them…well, he likes spending time with Kai. Despite that, Kai still talks on the phone like he’s a customer service rep. “You here?” “I’m in the west elevator bay. It’s quite labyrinthine, but if you’re outside obstetrics on this map, I should be up in an estimated two minutes.” “See ya.” Hanging up, Chandler feels complicated relief. Like all lies, telling Kai a useful fiction about his parentage felt worst at the beginning. So Chandler agonized, telling himself that if he won the Almasy, then he would confess. And the then kept shifting: after the transfer of the deed to Ettore Calvino’s house went through, after he’d said his piece to Farthington, after the prep for Colossus. Eventually, all the afters became the past, and the lie became simply a negotiated truce between Chandler and his better angels. Now, with Kai as part of the extended family, the lie is table stakes. Chandler and Kai shake hands when the latter gets to the waiting area. Physical affection is not yet on the menu. “Interesting building,” Kai says. “When does the child show up?” “That’s not…” Chandler laughs, and starts again. “The surgery usually takes about an hour, but it really depends. Baby could be here any minute, or not for a couple hours.” “What an oddity of randomness. Billions of data points across all human existence, and we still haven’t pinned down the variance between a few minutes and several hours. Astounding, if you think about it.” Kai’s earnestness always surprises Chandler, but he finds it comforting that there’s someone out there even more out of his depth than himself. “I take it you haven’t been around a birth before, Kai?” “I find it rather bewildering,” he says, lowering his voice, “The stochastic noise, the lack of predictability, the…fluids. And I don’t care for hospitals.” Chandler remembers that the young man’s association with healthcare is likely long and ugly, having watched cancer swallow up his mother. “Fuck, sorry. I didn’t even think of that.” Kai waves him off with a hand. “Well, in that case, let’s get this shit signed for you and get you out of here, yeah?” Kai produces several pieces of paper, the reason for his visit. The final pieces of the puzzle for Chandler to be rid of his father’s home, passed down to the next generation (of a sort). Kai hands them over with a pen right as the overwhelming noise begins. BREEEEEP BREEEEEP BREEP Two long trills, and one short. Others peer around before mostly returning to their phones. But hospital staff are massing, and move with atypical pace. “That’s…not normal,” Chandler says. “I agree. The only time I’ve seen people move this quickly in a hospital is when a patient was dying.” Before they can continue, a small female nurse with a big voice is addressing the waiting room. “Folks, eyes on me. I am going to need everyone to follow me and— At the same time, over the hospital’s PA, in booming android voice: Staff and patients, be advised. Code Silver. Be advised: Code Silver. Await further instructions and shelter in place. The nurse struggles to be heard over the confused murmurs breaking out, and points to a nearby doorway. “I need everyone to follow me. We are moving into this open exam room.” Clips and phrases pass by: what’s going on  I need to speak to my wife what’s a Code Silver I’m not going anywhere without my daughter someone turn off that racket The nurse looks the part of calm and cool, but she only responds to one of the comments, and Chandler’s spine shivers at her answer. “Code Silver is an active shooter. This conversation is over until everyone gets in that room now.” It’s eerie how straightforward the instructions are: Stay quiet. Stay low. Make sure your visitor badge is visible on your outerwear. Don’t be alarmed if your texts can’t get through, that’s probably overload on the towers. Security will be here soon. No one says don’t worry or it’s going to be alright. Chandler and Kai scan the room and their gaze lands back on each other. Among the others, there’s crying and praying and stunned silence. The nurse’s walkie crackles with chatter, most of it indecipherable jargon. Are those the sounds of first responders arriving, or merely the panic of an entire hospital trying to lock down? Chandler puts his hand on Kai’s arm, and mouths: it’ll be ok. A lie, or at least a bluff. The last one he’s ever going to tell Kai. /~/~/~/~/

hey what’s up yall it’s Jasmine I just wanted to record a quick TikTok before I go in for surgery, I’m JUICED that come this time tomorrow, I’ma be on the road to recovery! I cannot WAIT to getting back to showing you what I can do in the ring

one time for Dr. Anfield and his staff, they've done an incredible job getting me to this place, and now the Sinai Anaheim spinal surgery team will go in for eight hours - crazy, right? 

throw some prayers up for my girl Aubrey, who’s about to have a whole ass BABY too ohmygod I cannot wait to meet the cute little muffin

see yall on the other side love ya byeeeeeeeeeee /~/~/~/~/ Minutes trickle by. The radio belches. Air conditioning kicks on, and someone whimpers and cries. Fight-or-flight heart rate spike over long stretches of tedium feels laser-targeted at driving Chandler mad. No more, he decides. “Kai,” he says. A whisper of a whisper. Kai looks up. “I need to tell you something. It can’t wait.” The young man nods. “I’m not your biological dad.” Kai’s silence feels like it will go on forever. “I’m sorry.” The nurse shushes everyone and puts her ear close to her radio, and then repeats the update. “All clear, everyone.” Cheering, weeping, hugging all around them. Kai stares dead at Chandler. The older man has a stray thought towards whether Tim the stalker is now in custody. They’re going to be fine, but that’s not what it feels like. “Please say something.” “You lied to me and gave me a house.” It’s unclear whether it’s a question or statement. Chandler thinks of a dozen justifications and casts them out. “I know.” “Why did you do that?” “I— “You know how long I spent trying to track down my father. I’ve lost two months. I could’ve been making progress on that instead of…pretending.” “I know.” “You can cancel the transaction and have your house back,” he says, producing from his jacket the papers. “That’s not…. Take the house, even just as an apology. Here,” Chandler says, desperate, “I’ll sign these now.” Kai examines Chandler’s outstretched hand with the deed transfer paperwork. “I think you’ve mistaken generosity for kindness, Chandler. I hope you understand the difference.” As Kai walks away, Chandler thinks, with the lightness of unburdening and a new, heavy, darkness yoked around his neck: what a brilliant observation from someone who said he couldn’t understand people. /~/~/~/~/ Ettore Calvino’s house, recently deeded to Kai Carter, is up for sale as of this morning. The Zillow listing reads:

Perched majestically on a hilltop, this impressive, custom-built residence commands attention. Featuring a bold, distinctive façade with dynamic rooflines and striking column accents, this home offers unparalleled curb appeal. The thoughtfully designed entry presents a unique journey of discovery toward the main foyer. A must-see for the buyer seeking a property that defies convention and offers infinite potential for personalization. Schedule your private showing today!

/~/~/~/~/ Chandler’s awake as soon as she stirs in the hospital bed. “Morning.” “Hi.” “Doctors said you did good.” “Not good enough.” “Hey, don’t beat yourself up, Jaz.” “When did you get here? What’d they tell you?” Jasmine’s in a fog but seems lucid. “This morning. Early.” Jaime’s voice note to Chandler made it clear that something had gone wrong in the surgery, that Jasmine wasn’t in danger, but that they hadn’t been able to fix her spine. So last night, Chandler left one hospital in the dark, drove along the sunrise, and arrived at another. “Aubrey?” she asks. He grins. He’s in his own fog. “She’s good. Sydney too.” “Sydney,” Jasmine says, and allows a smile. “Baby Sydney. Is she cool?” “The coolest.” “Jaime said something about… a lockdown?” Chandler sighs. “Some asshole waving a gun around in the ER. Not even our specific asshole Tim. I think Aubrey was too zonked to know what was going on.” “And you?” Perhaps the Germans have a word for “In the darkest hour, I confessed I’d lied about biological parentage to provide a port in a storm to a lost young man, and now I don’t know if he’ll ever talk to me again.” No such economy of language in English. “Happy to be here,” he answers. “I’m sorry, Jaz. I know how long and hard you’ve worked at this. First Ivan, then the diagnosis, and now another setback. It’s ok to be sad or pissed or hurt. We’ll get through this.” In the silence, it’s hard not to relive the year that saw Jasmine go from phenom can’t-miss prospect to unable to wrestle, with no clear path to make it back. “You can say ‘I told you so’ now,” she says quietly. Jasmine is tough as nails. She’s made of stuff that won’t crack. But her voice wobbles ever-so-slightly, and it breaks a part of Chandler. “Never.” “Take your victory lap,” she says, more forcefully. “Nobody wins ‘em all. It’s ok to be upset.” “You don’t need to keep telling me.” “Alright. Then I’ll tell you to keep going.” Her eyes widen. “How?” Jasmine may be the world’s weariest twenty-year-old, but she’s only a kid. “Together,” he replies. Chandler scootches his chair to her bedside, and grasps her hand. “It’ll be alright. I promise.” He says it in order to believe, so that she sees him believing it. “How do you know?” He lets her lean into his shoulder and sob and sob and sob. /~/~/~/~/ On November 25, 2025, finally, Chandler holds baby Sydney in his arms. She is one day old, and weighs seven pounds, ten ounces, roughly the same as a bag of charcoal. Her head is a prune the size of a baseball, and she smells like sweet vanilla, with slight whiffs of canned peaches and cheese. For the first time maybe ever, Chandler Tsonda has nothing to say. He rocks her gently, and hums a lullaby, and believes. /~/~/~/~/ Ceece, it was better than holding the Uni. You gotta try it.  With that kid in my arms, I was the richest man alive. Richer than any Financier, all due respect. I had Scrooge McDuck money, swimming in a pool of doubloons with kitty cat hearts in my eyes. I couldn’t find that in three decades in the ring. I couldn’t will it into being with that or any other championship belt. I couldn’t grasp it by fixing the worst parts of myself.  I held her in my arms, and I knew soon it’d be time to hang up these boots. Because I gotta get to the other side. You may suspect this, old bean, but I’ve become quite fond of the limelight. So I’ll be taking that gorgeous gold number on my arm for a curtain call. She coos to me: Kiss me, you’re beautiful, these are truly the last days. I whisper back:  I know. Just one more dance, darlin’